Hermione Granger Has Got It Going On
by Durriken
Summary: What happens when Harry is having a hard time studying? Warning: very suggestive


A/N: So the last one was really fun to write and inspiration recently struck for a second. Maybe it'll strike for a third so I can turn this into a series of one-shots, who knows. And since outright smut is still beyond me, we set sail on the SS Lewd, heh. Enjoy!

Chapter Nex: Hermione Granger Has Got It Going On

* * *

"Don't you think so?"

It had to be the fifth or sixth time that Harry Potter had faded while his best friend, Ron Weasley, had been talking and, like the times before, it was a slog to zone back in on the conversation. The incessant scratching of Harry's quill sliding over the obscenely long piece of parchment before him didn't falter even as he nodded without a clue as to what Ron was talking about.

"I mean, I'm not saying I've been looking—a man of my stature has more class than that, obviously—but, you know…right? You've notice too, right?"

"Course I have," Harry lied smoothly, ignoring the furry creature slinking between his legs. After setting Crookshanks down on the floor some odd thirty times, the squash-faced feline finally caught the message that he wasn't to jump on the table while Harry and Ron worked on their two-foot long essay on _The Many Properties of Basilisk Blood and Their Uses_ for Professor Snape. Only the Gryffindor's were assigned such an obviously unfair length; the Slytherins were only required to turn in half a sheet.

"Exactly!" proclaimed Ron, and he leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. "It's downright a tease at this point—it's gotta be…like some sick, sick game of hers…."

"No doubt," said Harry, nodding absentmindedly.

The Gryffindor common room was relatively empty this time of night save for the two of them, and for that, Harry was grateful. Quiet and cozy and warm enough to chase away the encroaching chill of winter thanks to the crackling hearth. Perfect, because right after this murderously biased essay of Snape's came practicing the _Herbivicus Charm_ for Herbology, a spell that, on his first attempt, saw Harry's robes sprout these thorn-riddled roses all along the arms that then tried to strangle him like a mini-version of Devils Snare. He'd save a second attempt for last so if he was choked to death no one could say he did it to avoid his homework, even if the option was tempting.

While Ron was busy being flummoxed to the point of idly twirling his quill around his fingers, Harry drifted again. It was an annoying habit of his, and he did it frequently enough to get on his own nerves, but he couldn't help it. His mind seemed determined not to let him forget what he had done a little over four months ago by replaying it over and over again throughout the day. His right hand still stung from earlier when Professor McGonagall had slammed it in a textbook, finally fed up with having to entertain his dazed expression during one of her lessons.

"Reckon she's dating anyone and just not telling us…?" Ron's ever-reaching voice had penetrated Harry's daze yet again, only this time he sounded contemplative, glancing back toward the staircase that led to the girls dorm. "The short skirts, the leggings—she's even styling her hair better! Have you _seen_ that bounce lately? It's so obvious, she's downright showing off is what she's doing!" he said almost indignantly.

"She sure is," agreed Harry, his mind half the castle away.

"I don't like it!"

"Me either."

"I should go tell her about herself!"

"You should."

"I mean, someone's got to!"

"Might as well be you."

Harry had no idea who they were talking about or what about this person seemed to be driving Ron into a red-faced tizzy, and he only truly started to pay attention when Ron suddenly stood, so forcefully that he upended a jar of ink and sent it spilling onto the rug.

"Then it's settled!" Ron exclaimed righteously, ignoring how Crookshanks hissed reproachfully at him and slinked off to an empty chair.

Still wholly confused, Harry pulled out his wand, pointed it at the mess on the floor, and muttered, " _Tergeo_ ", which siphoned up a good majority of the ink.

 _Good enough_ , he thought, focusing on his amped up friend. "What's settled?"

" _It_ is!"

"Right, right…and what's _it_ supposed to be again?"

"What do you mean 'what's it supposed to'—we just talked about it! _It_ is _me_ "—Ron indicated to himself—"going to have a word with _her_!" he finished, pointing toward the girls dorm.

Something ethereal passed over Harry like the whisper of a ghost and he blinked, glancing about. What in the world was that…? Had Nearly Headless Nick passed through without him noticing? No, there was no sign of Nick—but there was a third person in the common room now.

"Have a word with who exactly?" queried a familiar voice and Ron jumped so bad that he tripped backwards into his chair, taking himself and it to the floor.

"OW!"

"Have a nice trip, Ron, see ya next fall!" Harry joked.

While Ron sputtered out a string of curses, Hermione giggled as she cleanly stepped over him and settled into the chair on Harry's other side where Crookshanks deftly jumped into her lap. After the amusing show that was Ron struggling to untangle himself from the chair, he scrambled to his feet, red-face with embarrassment, and immediately made a show about gathering his things, twice fumbling his quill.

"Whoa, whoa—what's wrong, mate?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised at the sudden rigidity in Ron's movements, like he was a machine glitching out. "We're nowhere near done with Snape's essay—and you know he's gonna want it the moment we step in his class. That or our souls, either one."

There was some shock in Hermione's eyes as she stared from Harry to Ron and back again. "You mean you two aren't done yet? _Still_?" she gasped.

"That's not even fair," said Harry with an exasperated sigh, and he lifted what he had accomplished thus far. He still had another four inches to grind out before he was through, and Ron was a slow writer so Harry knew if he wasn't done, then Ron definitely wasn't done. "Where do you think _you're_ going?"

But Ron had bundled all his supplies in both arms, papers trailing, wand tucked behind his ear, and had started toward the boys' dormitory in a verifiable sprint. "Gonnafinishupstairs," he muttered hurriedly.

"Ron— _Ron—w_ ho were you taking about earlier?" Hermione called after him, but Ron was gone, out of sight as fast his gangly legs would take him. "Oh, drats…I wanted to know….Did he tell you?"

Now more bewildered than he had been all night, and that was saying something as Basilisk blood was a concept only seventh years could possibly grasp, Harry scratched at his forehead with the end of his quill. A part of him was now kicking himself for not paying better attention to what had obviously been pushing Ron off the deep end, because now he was curious, too.

"I dunno—he might've for all I was listening," Harry shrugged, with a little bit of shame. "I was just so into this assignment that I guess I stopped paying attention after a point." He racked his memory. "I remember something about…about leggings? I think…."

Crookshanks hopped from Hermione's lap to saunter after Ron, no doubt curious himself, and Hermione watched him go with a meager wave. "Leggings? He was upset with…leggings?"

"Yeah," said Harry, nodding and laying his quill down to lean back in his chair. With Ron gone, and the moon just so perfectly perched in the sky from what he could see out the window, Harry figured he could rest for a few minutes then get back to it. He refused to cost Gryffindor any more points than what he had already lost thanks to Professor McGonagall. "Leggings and something something showing off, something something man of his class not looking…it was all really long and really stupid sounding—plus, this essay, ya know? See that long scratched out part there? Had to rewrite it twice 'cause of him."

"Hm…well… I don't think I'm showing off," Hermione mused to herself. "In fact, I think I look rather well off…did a lot of growing over the summer, you know. I can't help that…."

Again, Harry had only been half-paying attention, his mind still trying to parse several things from what had set Ron off to how in the world he was going to finish this assignment….But then Hermione's words replayed themselves back in his head like a tape being rewound and Harry found himself turning to actually look at her for the first time since she arrived.

And when he had, everything he was confused about was washed away by a sea of clarity: who Ron had been talking about, what about that person that seemed to make him flustered, why he left in such a hurry—all of it made sense now and for a few daft seconds, Harry merely stared, his train of thought crashing headlong into a mountain.

" _You've noticed, too, right?"_ Ron had asked earlier and now that he had a proper look, Harry could agree with certainty this time around. Yes, damn it, he had noticed—previous happenstance had increased his overall attention to such things—and he had tried his hardest since meeting up at the Burrow to ignore it.

But there she sat, looking innocently confused as, like Harry, she stared down at her choice of attire. It wasn't quite winter so the ungodly chill suitable to a swarm of Dementors hadn't infected the dorms yet but even so, a hugging white camisole with a plunging neckline and some black leggings hardly seemed liked appropriate sleep wear, it didn't even cover her stomach, for Merlin's sake. Again, if not for previous happenstance, this was something Harry would have neither noticed nor cared about—there was enough to deal with concerning Voldemort and the recent violent proclamation from his loyal followers, the Death Eaters—so when his eyes once more took notice of the ample curve to her hips and the way her thighs seemed far thicker than they had been a year ago, there was little the Boy Who Lived could do but stare, and quite intently at that.

"Harry?"

She was still rather lacking in the chest area, not entirely without some growth there, but nothing to fill a hand, but that only seemed to give her this annoyingly alluring pear-shape, which those leggings only accentuated. Being wrapped so snug against her, infiltrating every nook and cranny, Harry wondered how scented they must be, and at least thrice entertained the idea of simply asking for them.

"Hello? Harry…?"

Of course, he could never do that. What happened back in Diagon Alley had been a once off, a miracle meeting that he would swear was the result of a fever dream. This here, this girl sitting next to him was Hermione, his best friend, brainiest witch of whatever year she happened to be in—if she didn't outright slap him across the face like she did Malfoy their previous year then complete avoidance was definitely the secondary option, and, friendship aside, that was simply dreadful to think about considering all the notes he would no doubt need to copy from her for the rest of the schoolyear….

"Harry."

 _No, I can't. I won't do it_ , Harry decided with a firm exhale, though his eyes continued to somberly glide the distance from her thighs, taking in the thin fabric separating her skin from the elements. In this moment, he could think of only one person to blame for his currently frustrated state, one woman of noble blood who was directly responsible for awakening these previously suppressed urges, one witch who he felt sure had to have seen something like this coming and was now wearing a most sadistic smile wherever she happened to be….

"Well, you're about as hard as one of the cauldrons in potions."

Hermione's voice only slightly pulled Harry out of his mental spiral, just enough for him to sullenly reply, "I could probably _pierce_ one of the cauldrons in potions with this, honestly."

And there it was again, that amused little giggle of hers. "Well, it's obvious why you can't concentrate, Harry, isn't it? All the blood you need to keep your brain focused is being rerouted to… _there_ ," she smirked, pointing with her pinky finger at a spot between Harry's legs.

"Blimey, you might be onto something there….It's really late, too, innit? I'm usually in bed by now but this homework"—he sighed egregiously—"is practically medieval. You're some sort of brilliant, Hermione, I swear."

"Oh, come now, it's nothing special," she said, sounding pleased all the same.

"Nope, you really are, doing all'a that and _then_ going for the extra credit—"

His heart suddenly fluttered, a choked squeak issuing from his throat. His brain, beaten and flayed by Snape's essay, had finally caught up to speed, and his stomach consequently dropped into a void.

He sat up bolt-right, slamming his legs shut like the door to some untold treasure. "Hermione—agh!—wait, it's not w-what it looks like—"

"It's _exactly_ what it looks like," she interrupted smoothly and Harry fell silent almost as if bewitched, jaw clenching, heart racing as he watched her stand and cross over to his side of the table, "and I must say…you'll be well on your way to failing if this keeps up."

For one wild second, when she said that and began to reach down, Harry thought she was going to grab his groin—but no, that was just his scrambled mind conjuring up a sordid fantasy, leaving him with a twinge of disappointment when she instead picked up one of the many textbooks scattered on the table.

Her eyes scanned the cover with mild interest. " _The Basilisk Within_ ," she murmured under her breath, and with just a touch of skepticism. "See, now, I find that interesting because the book that I used for _my_ essay was ' _Gauging Venomous Spitters'_ by Gertrude Spinelli, which had actual excerpts from world-renowned Basilisk trackers…but I'm seeing heeeere," she said, dragging out the word as she quickly thumbed through the thick tome, "that this contains not even one credible source. Surprise, surprise."

The words were hitting Harry's ears well enough—he was privy to her disapproving tone at least—but they weren't connecting, they weren't making sentences he could understand. In fact, nothing could penetrate Harry on a cognitive level, and that was mostly because of the twin set of cheeks before his face. Covered only by the thin layer of clothing that was her silk leggings, every line and curve was on full display for his hungrily roaming eyes. Even more defined than he remembered, the shape of Hermione's rear could be described as petite yet plump, the tightness of her leggings keeping her cheeks pressed together in such a way that with every shift of her body, with every scornful exhale over his apparently poor choice of textbook, it sent a subtle ripple over that creamy smooth surface. She didn't have much fat back there, no…Hermione's was more…snooty, if Harry had to put a word to it, still plump in its own right but far more firm, more supple with youth—

His nostrils suddenly twitched at the heady scent wafting from the rump before him. Notably, it was a very clean smell…although—and he sniffed very hard—still slightly musky, a perfectly fragrant cocktail of sweet and sour; she must have worked up something of a sweat coming down the stairs, and it _was_ a tad bit humid in the common room tonight thanks to the hearth—

Her ass bounced, wobbled like an invisible hand had delivered it a mighty smack, and Harry flinched, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep hold of what little restraint he still had.

"Did you hear a word I said, Harry?" She glanced back over her shoulder at him, the scorn in her voice displaying itself in the shape of a chastising frown. "You can't expect to finish your essay using _this_ rubbish, let alone get a passing grade. You'd do much better with what I used!"

Harry found it amazing how she could admonish him so freely while her ass continued to dominate more than half his vision. "Err," was all he could muster up in response and she sucked her teeth.

"We can't have you failing and costing Gryffindor any more points, that won't do at all," Hermione said thoughtfully, standing with a new textbook in her hands. The shift in posture only caused her rear to jiggle accordingly, those leggings doing an admirable job of keeping her cheeks contained. "And you can't even begin to concentrate unless we get your blood flowing back to where it belongs."

Harry was saved the burden of having to ask just what in the world Hermione was talking about when she spun around to face him, which, while depriving Harry the joys of her rear, prominently placed her washboard stomach just at eye level. His first instinct was to assault her bare naval with his tongue but saner heads prevailed and he merely stared without shame, tracing the smoothness of her skin all the way down to the band of her leggings, where she began to fill out into a pair of eye-widening hips that normally went unnoticed thanks to their everyday robes. From there, as his eyes continued their sordid journey, he doubted very much if he'd be able to slide even a wand through her thighs they were so tightly pressed together—and sweet buckets of butter beer….

Was that…were those her panties?

 _Holy—_

Harry stiffened where he sat, and in more ways than one, fingers clenching into a white-knuckled fist as the longer he stared, the longer he was about make out the slight indent that indicated her underwear. With some frill along the band, they were the same color as her leggings, probably the same material, too, and practically invisible from the back with a kitten print on the front.

Hermione seemed to catch where he was staring so intently at and nodded with a smile, using a single finger to tap the hem. "A good choice, yes?" she asked inquisitively. "Give me your honest opinion."

Even if Harry wanted to respond, because the answer was obvious, it was nigh impossible to surmount the rubber ball that had fallen into his throat as he watched her continue to tap…tap…tap that cat print, sometimes dipping that alluring finger down to where her thighs met before slowly, painstakingly dragging it back up again, and she did this for a few beats of Harry's hammering heart.

"I wanted to get a pair with a picture of Crookshanks on it but the galleons needed…simply outrageous," she continued softly, now glancing at the book in her other hand. "Hmmm…At the very least, even if you don't complete Professor Snape's assignment, we're going to make sure you know at least _something_ about basilisk venom. That way you can answer the questions you're no doubt going to be assaulted with."

Harry nodded so blankly that she could have said he was about to duel Dumbledore to the death with nothing but a rubber chicken and it would have drawn the same response for all he was paying attention. Each and every single one of those stroking taps against herself sent a jolt straight to his groin—he was leaning forward, beginning to openly pant—

"Oh, no, no, no, there'll be none of that," Hermione scolded kindly enough and she pressed that same finger to Harry's forehead, applying only the slightest of pressure to ease him back into his chair. "We can't be having treats before a good well done, can we?"

She shifted weight to one foot, tilting those bodacious hips, and Harry wanted to scream in his mind. Why was this happening? _What_ was happening? How could Hermione be talking about academics when less than a minute ago she had been—

It took a few blinks to realize that something was in his mouth that hadn't been there before…something that had a very flavorful taste…something that he proceeded to lap about hungrily with his tongue….

There was no shortage of pleasure radiating from Hermione's face as Harry dutifully licked and suckled around the finger she had abruptly popped between his lips, the very finger she had been tapping herself with. That look she was leveling him with, that half-lidded stare, that quaint, innocent smile, all while exhaling a satisfied sigh…it only provoked Harry to lavish her finger like it was the sweetest lollipop.

When Hermione began to slowly withdraw her digit from his mouth, Harry reluctantly let it go, creating a bridge of saliva between the two. It eventually fell away and Harry felt a particularly hard tremor in his crotch when she lifted that glistening finger to her own lips, closed her eyes, and took a passionate lick of it, that smooth, pink muscle tracing all the way to the tip of her nail. The expression on her face was nothing short of sinful, her heated breathing almost matched his own, and that low-rising moan like she was losing herself to the ecstasy, all of it was driving Harry mad.

Prior to this moment, Harry had been sound in his belief that there only existed one devil in woman's clothing wandering this great world, but after doggedly observing Hermione and the lusty way she lapped at her own finger, he now stood corrected.

There existed _two_ devils.

"Not bad," Hermione uttered throatily, like she was out of breath, and Harry grunted.

Carefully, she took a delicate seat atop the studying table, aligning herself so that she was perched in front of Harry, and it wasn't until she began to cross her legs that Harry realized her leggings stretched down to her feet and wrapped around the arch. Even here her skin was porcelain, from the exposed heel to her perfectly manicured little toes, the nails of which were painted a brilliant shade of blue. What level of pervert he would obtain if he admitted to wanting to lick them…?

"So. I can't help but notice that you seem to be carrying around a pair of purple panties," she said bluntly.

Harry started choking on absolutely nothing.

Just as composed as ever, Hermione casually flipped a page in the textbook, giving Harry time enough to quell his coughing fit. "Really, Harry, if you didn't want anyone seeing them then you should possess a greater sense of self-awareness—you might as well have been waving them in front of my face," she sniffed, gently swinging her aloft leg.

Another page turned. Her foot was getting dangerously close to his knee.

"It's natural to assume they mean a lot to you, isn't it? I don't know who they're from—I'm not all that interested, really—but to carry around such a provocative article of clothing…honestly, I'm a little annoyed that you don't seem to care about the consequences that would follow if you were caught with them! How many points would that be from Gryffindor?"

She turned a few pages back to the front, obviously looking up a reference, before returning to where she was; and now the ball of her foot was resting squarely on Harry's knee, her slender toes flexing in a way that he felt both purposeful and highly unfair. They were almost beckoning him to try something, a sniff, a lick—anything.

"Now, I know how difficult it can be to concentrate when urges arise—oh, believe me, I know full well," she said sincerely as Harry had accidentally let slip a disbelieving snort, "and during that time, even one's studying can be in danger of being pushed aside. So, in an effort at helping you pass this obstacle, and helping _us_ keep our points where they are…I have to ask, Harry…."

At her extended pause, Harry glanced up to see Hermione in the process of pulling her bushy hair back into an even bushier ponytail. His right eye twitched. What…why? She had both arms up, fiddling with the band that seemed to be fighting against her, leaving her chest extended and her face adorably scrunched with concentration, tongue poked out to the side. Her figure was really thin yet the way she began to thicken up south of her waist was put on full display as she struggled to tame her mane.

And then the idea hit Harry with all the strength of the _Flipendo_ jinx. He could have grabbed her right then and there, he could have…her arms were up, occupied with hair, she was defenseless, he could just grab her and bring that ridiculously provocative body close…but then his morals interjected with facts. No, he couldn't do that, because this was Hermione, and no matter how lewd she happened to be acting she was nothing more than his best friend—

His best friend who had just slipped a thumb down the front of her leggings to stretch them out, allowing an uninterrupted viewing of her black silk panties.

 _Welp. Goodbye, scruples, it was nice knowing you._

On honed reflex, Harry's head snapped down so quickly one would think he had spotted the golden Snitch between her legs—but no, it was something far greater, and he subconsciously licked his top lip, able to count the stitched-on whiskers of that cat print. He visibly jerked, nearly off the chair, when she tensed her thighs together, bunching her panties up and mewling out the softest moan Harry had ever heard. It was almost like she had licked his ear with her voice alone.

The mewling only intensified when Hermione yanked on her leggings, pulling the fabric between her touching thighs and roughly rubbing it up against her underwear. Harry's throat had suddenly gone very dry. Caught in her own rhythm, Hermione was openly wincing with every tug, her hips slowly beginning to rock and forth to add more friction.

Braindead though he was in the moment, Harry withheld enough wit to know that this studious witch in front of him was getting herself off with her own leggings, forcefully snatching the thinly stretched material between her legs to stroke the treasure hidden just behind her panties. Her every twitch pulled at his crotch like a magnet, the way her tender lips issued a stream of barely contained gasps, that sensual arch to her back, even the way a few renegade straggles of hair draped around her flushed face….

Her lips were moving now, no doubt forming words aimed at him but the throbbing between his own legs had a stranglehold on his ability to focus to the point where even his comprehension skills had shorted out.

"Would you prefer my feet…or my panties?"

That was perhaps the single most loaded question presented to Harry since the start of term. Not only was he unable to process it despite how softly and carefully she uttered those stimulating words, but something within him forced him to remain silent and instead enjoy the way she yanked and pulled on her leggings. It was a show, just like Ron had said, and he didn't feel like wasting a single second on talking.

She seemed to take his abnormally rapt face as an answer and that smile from before deepened into something coquettish. "Oh…so neither of those are enough of a motivator? My, my…."

When she began to rise, Harry's head rose with her, staring up at this bushy-haired goddess, enraptured with her everything, in tune with her every movement.

"Then we'll go with this, shall we?"

With her change in position, Harry expected her to take her foot off his knee…so he was left speechless when Hermione placed a firm hand on both his shoulders for balance and straddled his waist. The weight that fell over his lap was ungodly in the best way: it smashed the helplessly throbbing mass in his pajamas up against her. He felt it all, he had no choice, the heat radiating between her trembling thighs had all but consumed the tent he was pitching, massaging it with her softness. She tensed over him, inhaling sharply in his ear and Harry responded in kind with a growling hiss.

"H-Harry," he heard her whine, "it's…I— _mmmph—"_ The rest of her words slurred into a husky groan and she ran her slick tongue over the outside of his ear.

The pleasure had Harry struggling to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his head. Her weight was solid, ensuring he was well and truly pinned for the duration, pinned beneath her pliant ass and betwixt the thighs he felt shivering as she struggled to adjust to what she was sitting on. Her every heated exhale tickled his ear and only increased the tremors that ran through his crotch, which seemed to stimulate her in ways he couldn't even imagine given how she clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, legs squeezing tight. There wasn't an inch of space left between them, Hermione was making sure of that, smashing her front against Harry with such force breathing was fast becoming a chore.

" _Ah!_ "

The groan escaped Harry before he could even begin to stop it, coerced out of him when Hermione suddenly rocked her hips against him, sliding herself up his erection and back down with a shuddering exhale. What followed was an unholy throb from between his legs that left him lightheaded, hands balling into fists—she had just stroked him! And so slowly at that…teasingly dragging that warmth up his entire length before settling down into his lap again.

"I take it you liked that?"

For a supposed genius of her year, that was quite possibly the most daftest question Harry had ever heard her utter. He shakily nodded, drawing in a series of ragged breaths and fighting to keep his mind straight, a task made nearly impossible thanks to the slight wetness that was seeping onto the crotch of his pajama pants. His gaze slid down the front of her camisole to where their groins were practically mashed together.

"That's me," she giggled, and Harry's cheeks took on a shade of red that would have made Ron's hair look dusty. "It felt good, grinding against you like that….I suppose I'm just like you, just a wee bit pent-up, you know? Difference is, when I start drooling down there like this I can still concentrate. Can you say the same, Harry?"

No, he couldn't. Mostly because Harry had blanked out when she said the word 'drooling', his imagination corkscrewing into a sky of lecherous thoughts. He didn't come back down to earth until he felt something sharp prod him in the forehead. It was Hermione's finger. He recognized that oh-so familiar stern look on her aglow face, he had received it numerous times in the past on the tail-end of a scolding.

"Pay attention, you," she admonished, waving that finger in front of his face. "Now, I think I'm comfortable…it took a bit longer to get used to your, um… _problem_ , but I feel right now." When she sighed with relief, Harry didn't think twice about inhaling her candied breath, extending his chest back against hers. "Olfactory-based kink, hm?" A glimmer of interest shone in her eyes. "Wow, you've really got it bad, don't you?"

Before he could choke out a reply, her hips were moving again, grinding over him intently, back and forth at a snail's pace. Unlike last time, this rhythm was wholly deliberate, he could tell by the way she alternated between squeezing her thighs and sliding her chest against his.

"Shush," she ordered, with a finger to her lips, continuing her hypnotic dance, "that was a rhetorical question. Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn't be _this_ rigid," she added in a heady drawl, planting both hands against Harry's chest to hoist herself up a little. "I mean, I'm sweating up a storm right now and look you…taking in my scent like it's perfume…."

The smell of this girl on top of him was indeed enormous, it filled his lungs with every inhale, and it only seemed to grow in intensity as the seconds passed. Exactly when he had discovered he harbored this kink could probably be traced to a few months ago, when he was putting it use in the dirtiest way possible, yet Hermione's was the opposite of that; her aroma was sweeter, tangier, it almost begged him to explore every inch of her exposed pale skin with his tongue. That urge translated to taking her by the hips, gripping like he might never let go.

Hermione lifted a hand to flick a few straggles of hair from her face. "Mm, I was wondering if you'd ever get to doing that. I think I'm filling out rather nicely, wouldn't you say?"

Even if it wasn't, Harry treated that question as rhetorical as well and continued to explore with his greedy hands, his palms gliding up to her waist and then down her thighs where each of his fingers sank into the marshmallow soft flesh there. She had muscle, that much was obvious by how effortlessly she tensed and tightened around him, but this sensation was something else. Past the leggings, her skin was silky smooth and he swallowed quite audibly, maneuvering his thumbs toward the inside of her thighs as he began to slide his hands back up.

It was the most daring Harry could recall ever being, even beyond facing Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, and he completely expected her to stop him…any second now…she would, he knew she would, there was no way she would let him—

" _Nnnnnm…._ "

The most erotic moan escaped Hermione's lips when his thumbs met either side of those slick black panties and she gripped at his chest, riding out a set of shivers that arched her back. Harry almost yanked his hands back out of shock but her thighs were squeezing now, keeping his thumbs trapped there, trapped against her.

"No, you're going to stay right there," Hermione stated, and there was something purposeful in the way she swayed side to side, making sure his caught thumbs rubbed deeply over her most private place. "You were obviously searching for something…and— _nnnf_ …I'd say you found it." Her eyes flashed hungrily. " _Five points to Harry Potter_. Let's see if you can earn some more," she mused, gently guiding his glasses off.

There wasn't much time for Harry to be confused when he found his face sandwiched between her breast, the hand at the back of his head pushing him in deeper still. Using her lithe form, Hermione had snaked her way further along Harry's lap, pushing herself up so that she sat directly on the tip of his problem. Sighing contently, she rested her chin on top of his head, keeping him pressed into her.

"Muuuuuch better," he heard her exhale, "oh yes, yes, yes…this is…I can feel it so much better this way, Harry."

Automatically, he knew what she was referring to, but the same applied to him as well and just knowing what his erection was sandwiched against managed to squeeze out a rather sticky drop of his essence. He groaned against her and she snuggled him with a giggle.

"I know, I know, mhm…that's all me you're feeling. Still, try not to explode, won't you? We're Gryffindors, after all. Courage and valor in the face of impossible odds." There was definitely a newfound level of playfulness to her voice that Harry was quick to catch. "Although…I think you have it easier than I do, Harry. If you happened to accidentally… _go off_ , your pajamas would keep it all neatly contained, but with me in these leggings—well, it's a constant struggle, I'll have you know. Can you guess why?"

"Because girls are more sensitive?" was what Harry garbled out against her, though nary a word was intelligible.

Hermione shook her head with a subtle bounce of her rump that caused Harry to seize up underneath her. That had to be her form of punishment for an insipid answer. "Whatever you said, I'm sure it's wrong. It actually gets a tad bit messier with me because…well…."

The strain was real. Utterly, horribly real. Every single blessed word Hermione uttered out in that low, amused hum was punctuated by a rock of her hips, a wobble of her ass, a clench of her thighs—sometimes all at once—and each time pushed Harry closer and closer to the brink. Try as he might, and he was popping a vein in his temple from the strain, there was no coming back from this cliff she had pushed him onto. His nostrils were clogged with her heavy musk, she was definitely aroused; he was frantically trying to lick through her camisole at this point, anything to get a taste of this delightfully evil witch, to catch even a bead of her glistening sweat on his tongue.

He didn't even bother trying to control himself. It was spiraling out of control, everything was, the thumbs still caught between her legs were vigorously stroking the front of her silk panties with reckless abandon. He knew his technique, if it could even be called that, had to be sloppy but he could feel Hermione's chest beginning to heave against his, the hitches in her moans were all too clear….He had to be doing _something_ right as her everything was squeezing him now while she dragged herself up and down off tempo, letting not even an inch of space get between their heated bodies.

He squeezed her thighs.

 _I can't…._

Her arms wrapped around his neck.

 _I can't let go…_

Breathing was beyond problematic for Harry with his face smashed against her like it was, but he didn't stop her or try to lean back. Gryffindor didn't breed the weak and he would be damned if asphyxiation took him out before he took this groaning witch above him to the finish line. That's where he knew Hermione was headed, she was convulsing just like—

 _Not yet…not yet…_

It was an odd, almost ephemeral feeling when the two of them slipped from the grasp of time. Harry could recall a similar time not so long ago when he had experienced this exact same sensation, this exact same shortness of breath, this exact same fluttering in his stomach. While he remained frozen, Hermione slinked further down his waist so that she could place her lips right next to his ear.

" _It gets messy because I squirt._ "

 _And there it is._

Letting go was something Harry rarely did, usually because his life was on the line and letting go meant a very painful death, but this time…in this one moment…letting go gave him the greatest sense of euphoria he had ever had in his short life. He snatched his thumbs from their enclosure and wasted no time in taking two meaty handfuls of Hermione's plush ass, taking her in a vice-grip that she responded to by clenching so hard that he temporarily lost feeling in his legs. Something was going off in his pajama bottoms with such force that his eyes twitched and his mouth opened in a growl more feral than human.

It paled in comparison to the cry Hermione let loose, however, and Harry was slightly startled at the sudden wetness pouring from between her thighs; it squirted out against his groin, that slickness, and Hermione met each stray gush with a whimpering moan, convulsing so hard that Harry would swear something had bewitched their chair to vibrate.

The scene between their hips was an absolutely sticky mess, not that Harry could see it—his world had been reduced to the soft darkness of Hermione's chest for who knows how long now—but he could definitely feel it. His pajamas were ruined; he'd have to get a new pair if Hermione didn't simply choke him out while she rode the waves of pleasure causing her back to arch.

A wave of fresh air assaulted Harry's sweaty face when Hermione suddenly reared back and he took to gulping down mouthfuls, chest pumping. The satisfaction shining through Hermione's face was every bit the seductive expression of a lioness who had just gotten exactly what she wanted.

"From the Boy Who Lived to the Boy Who Can Deliver," she mused, glancing down between them. What she saw caused her eyes to sparkle with what Harry could only assume was appreciation. "Honestly, I wasn't expecting myself to actually…but that was before you went off, all twitchy and everything…so you're really to blame for this mess if we look at it logically, Harry."

Chuckling tiredly, Harry jiggled the twin pair of cheeks in his grasp, squeezing and kneading, bringing a blush to her face. "Right, because nothing you did had a part in any of that, not at a— _hey_!"

He had just begun to lean his head back against the increasingly comfortable chair when he was snatched forward by the collar of his shirt, almost to the point where their foreheads touched.

"Oh, no you don't," Hermione said, and in a shift that left Harry baffled, she flicked him over the nose. "I believe I said earlier that you're not going to cost us anymore points, didn't I?"

After racking his depleted mind, yes, Harry remembered her saying that. "Y-yeah?"

"I thought so," she sniffed, still holding him close, "and I _meant_ it. You couldn't concentrate because of your previous condition, but now, thanks to my wholesome services, your mind should be free and able to focus, right?"

He wanted to laugh at the term 'wholesome services'. There was no telling how in the world Hermione had come to that bizarre conclusion—even the smartest of the bunch had lapses in wisdom, apparently—but she was sadly mistaken. Far from the clarity she probably thought he now had, Harry felt drained, tired, supremely wet, and wanted nothing more than to climb into his four-poster bed and drift off into sleep, assignments be damned.

"It was my plan to help both you _and_ Ron tonight but he took off in such a hurry…" she said, causing Harry's eyes to nearly bug from their sockets. "What? It just looked like the both of you were getting so bogged down over the past couple of weeks, and that leads to nothing but, well…what you just unloaded on me…."

Despite the fact that she was the one who had done most of the 'unloading', now Harry was blushing while his mind reeled with her casual admission. This was something…planned? Something that Hermione, _the_ studious Hermione, was prepared to do for the both of them? He just couldn't believe it.

"Hermione, you…" he started, unsure of what he wanted to say, what he even _could_ say, before settling on a stunned, " _really_? Both of us?"

"Well, yes, why not? It's what friends do for each other and I imagine it would have been like taking care of two birds with one stone." She cringed. "…to use such a ghastly analogy."

 _Thank you, Ron_ , Harry found himself thinking graciously, and he accepted the pang of guilt that struck him almost immediately, but he couldn't lie to himself. Even though Ron was undoubtedly his mate through thick and thin, there was no denying that he was glad for Ron's quick departure. When Harry looked back on all that had just transpired between him and Hermione—the fact that her deliciously soft ass was in his grasp, even—he could safely say that he wouldn't have wanted to share this moment with anyone.

"I did, however," continued Hermione, lifting a finger, "figure things might get a tad loud so I cast a silencing spell when I entered to keep our voices from reaching who they ought not."

Well, that explained the mysterious zephyr Harry had felt earlier, but still, ignoring that, even if it was for their benefit, Harry had a hard time believing 'friends' went to such extreme lengths to offer their help no matter what the situation.

He didn't know why but he leaned in and kissed her on the nose. The reaction his surprise peck got—namely her reeling back with wide eyes and cherry-red cheeks—was adorable.

"You…are such a goof, Hermione, I swear."

"I—what?" she flustered. "Why am I goof? You're feeling better, aren't you?"

Sliding his hands from her rear to her back, Harry brought the confused witch in for a squeezing hug, sighing against her. "Yeah, loads."

"Great! And, er, speaking of loads," Hermione began hesitantly, and she relinquished her hold on Harry's collar to twiddle her pointing fingers together. Harry winced at the cuteness. "Um, would you mind if I…it's just I'm rather curious—like I said, I didn't expect you to actually go off like that and there's an awful lot of it and I'm absolutely thrilled I was able to make you to finish like you did so I reckon it could be a reward of sorts if you really think about it—"

The way she was tumbling over her words and shooting furtive glances down at Harry's soaked crotch gave Harry all the hints he needed to catch what she was struggling to get out, and it made his lower region pulse with a renewed vigor.

Yes. This girl was indeed a devil.

And he liked it.

"Sure," he said after calming himself, "if you help me get the _right_ facts about basilisk blood."

Hermione's face morphed from surprise to glee and she started bouncing on Harry's lap, ignorant to the affect it was fast having on him. "Oh—good! Absolutely I can! We'll just toss the book you've been using…nothing but rubbish, we'll use mine instead. Okay, so I'll go get washed up and you can just—wait, no! I almost forgot…."

Whenever Hermione got excited, she had the propensity to speed-talk, or babble like a hyperactive hummingbird as Ron detailed it, so Harry was still trying to catch up when he felt her hands pulling delicately on the string of his pajama bottoms. His stomach clenched with nerves. He had already said she could, but…he wasn't so sure if he wanted her looking directly into his pants.

"Hermione…wait, I—"

Her hand snaked down the front and Harry gasped, tensing as her fingers teased and caressed an area that no one but him and the sun had ever seen. Rendered mute by these new sparking sensations, he couldn't tell the determined witch to stop even if he wanted to…he only twitched, grunting as he felt two of her dextrous digits make a swiping motion and then she was carefully withdrawing her hand like what she had gathered was valuable treasure.

"Ooooooh, so _this_ is it," she marveled, staring transfixed at Harry's essence. "It's so thick…and still warm…."

Dumbstruck. Embarrassed. Aroused. Any and all of those could sum up Harry's mixed bag of emotions. Every time he thought he had Hermione figured out, she threw a curveball that left him spinning. He honestly didn't know what kind of fascination she was drawing from his…from _that_ stuff but she normally only gave that kind of look to a freshly opened book or whatever new lesson they would be learning the current day.

And then Hermione plopped those same fingers right in her mouth with a pleased "Mmm!"

Harry swore in his mind. _Why_ was watching her do that so erotic? She suckled her fingers clean with an utterly antagonizing slurping noise that nearly set Harry off.

"That was better than I thought it'd be," she said excitedly, then she frowned. "Shoot…if we didn't have to study, I'd go for another taste…." It was truly a conundrum for her by the pout on her face, but then she slammed her fist into the palm of her other hand. "I've got it! Tomorrow we'll just have to do this again, Harry."

Harry's head tilted to the side. Surely he couldn't have heard—

"This time you'll be ready, _I'll_ be ready and—oh, look at me being selfish…." She lowered herself onto him again, tightening her thighs around him again and getting a furious rise out of him again. "If you want, Harry, since you seem to like panties and scents so much…next time, I'll wear a really, really good pair so you can just nestle that little nose of yours right between my thick thighs and—"

It was too much. Too much to think about, too much to take in. Harry's mind fizzled out with a delightful pop, leaving only a single thought to bounce around in the darkness much like how Hermione was subtly doing on him:

 _What is this year of my life becoming…?_


End file.
